


Almost Human

by jaskiersvalley (connorssock)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23170930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/connorssock/pseuds/jaskiersvalley
Summary: People always expect a witcher to be an inhuman powerhouse, something that just keeps going and going and going. Sometimes, people learn a lesson the hard way, not all assumptions and stories are true.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 26
Kudos: 616





	Almost Human

All through life, Jaskier had seen plays, listened to songs that described how a hero would stagger and fall to the side from a mighty blow. There was glory in his slumped form, the way he would wilt to the side. In plays, he would always fall so his head was cushioned on an arm, in songs he was caught or his descent would be controlled, half uttered love confessions slipping out before unconsciousness claimed its victim.

Jaskier discovered the hard way that they were all lies.

He had been waiting at the inn for Geralt to come back from a hunt. It was late into the night but there was still a buzz of excitement from the villagers as they waited for the great White Wolf to return, victorious and declaring their troubles to have been dealt with. Geralt and Jaskier had stumbled into this contract off the back of another, the blood of the bruxa still drying on Geralt’s armour.

The door swung open, Geralt stepped in but he didn’t have his usual foreboding presence. He had the head of the beast in hand, passed it off to the nearest person. His eyes were still like watery ink with glints of amber as the potion wore off. In retrospect, Jaskier should have known that potions were the only thing that kept Geralt upright enough to get back to the inn.

He took a few steps in, far too controlled and measured to be his norm. Geralt stood by the bar, just out of arm’s reach from Jaskier. Although usually not a man of many words, he didn’t even greet his bard. There was no attempt to speak, no stutter to give away what was going to happen.

Geralt crumpled to the floor.

One moment he was standing, the next his knees were giving out and his head thumped against the bar on the way down, only to thud again, against the hard floor. He wasn’t sprawled like in a play, limbs comfortably arranged. If anything, it looked decidedly uncomfortable, a leg trapped under him, swords on his back meaning his spine was bent at a funny angle.

The whole inn was silent, not quite knowing what was going on. Nobody expected a witcher to just pass out.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked, a little nervous. A nudge of his foot got no reaction. “Oh fuck! Geralt!”

Realisation had people lurching into action, Jaskier crouched next to the unconscious witcher. It took two people to move Geralt, pull swords from his back, loosen armour and roll him onto his side. Somebody had the sense to start fanning him while the bartender brought water over.

For a good few minutes people worried that their witcher had just died on them, breaths slow and heartbeat barely detectable. The flutter of eyelashes was the first sign of life and when Geralt’s eyes finally opened, it was with a disoriented mumble of “Jask?”

“Right here you oaf,” Jaskier crouched next to Geralt, stroked fingers down a sweat damp cheek. “What happened?”

A grunt was his only reply but the fact Geralt wasn’t trying to get up told him more than enough.

“When was the last time you ate? Or drank? Or slept?” They were all meant to be rhetorical questions, no answer truly expected.

“Four days ago. There was a stream before the fight. Last week.” The words were pushed out by force, Geralt’s eyes closed which was just as well because he couldn’t see the appalled look on just about everyone’s face.

“Get some water into him,” the barkeeper all but growled. Hands helped Geralt sit up, back against the bar, legs stretched out in front of him. He was still a little floppy, his head bleeding sluggishly from where he had hit it on the way down.

For all of Jaskier’s songs, that was the moment the villagers finally saw the witcher not as a mutant contract killer but an equal. Someone who had needs just as much as anyone else.

Although Geralt flinched at a stranger dabbing at the wound and helping him clean it, he allowed it with gritted teeth. He was in no shape to fight and these people didn’t seem to want to harm him or drive him off. If anything, they wanted to help. Someone pushed a tankard in his hands, filled with cool, clean water. A hunk of bread was brought over, easy on the stomach and there was promise of something more once he could handle it.

It was all so foreign, Geralt couldn’t quite put order to the kindness. People were actually trying to help him. They got the fire roaring, they weren’t trying to drive him out of their village once he had sorted their problems for them.

Only once he was a little more coherent did the alderman approach with a pouch of coin. It definitely held more than their agreed price which Geralt tried to argue about, pushing it back.

“No.” The alderman was firm and wrapped Geralt’s fingers around the bag before stepping back so the pouch couldn’t be returned. “You helped us, we help you. Board and food have been taken care of for the next week, your horse will be stabled too.”

Hands helped Geralt up when he got his energy back enough to stand. He was ushered to a table and patted on the back which had him jerking away, expecting something harsher than a friendly touch. Jaskier slithered in next to him, an arm not quite touching but braced behind Geralt in case he took another turn for the worse.

“Eat. Let others care for you for a bit.”

A bowl of broth was put in front of Geralt, still easy on the stomach but a little more filling. He ate it in bewildered silence and, when the bowl was empty, Jaskier helped pick his things up and they retired to their room.

Sleep was a wonderful thing and Geralt woke up feeling so much better for it. When he made his way down to the bar, people nodded in his direction but didn’t flinch, didn’t watch his every step with fear and mistrust. In fact, a few even smiled at him.

It was Jaskier who pointed out that people couldn’t exactly be scared of someone they saw passed out, obviously exhausted and hurting because of them. While Geralt wanted to growl “weak” and “pathetic”, it was all silenced by the marvel that was the kindness shown to him. In the week of their stay, it didn’t matter that he was his usual standoffish and cold self, people still treated him like one of them. Maybe it wasn’t so terrible to be seen as a little more human for a change. And it probably helped that Jaskier was charming everyone each night with his songs, even writing new ones, singing the praise of the brave villagers who rushed to the assistance of a fallen witcher. It wasn’t one that was going to be a regular in his repertoire but it was good to have a bit of variety.

When time came to leave, for the first time in many years, Geralt actually looked back at the village. The people were gathered around but they were armed with smiles and waves rather than rocks and pitchforks. While it was unlikely Geralt would ever pass through there again, he knew he would remember the village for a long time to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Find more ficlets on tumblr - @jaskiersvalley


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